Faul Play
by TheLef318
Summary: Everyone knows about the famous pop culture Paul Is Dead Hoax...but was it JUST a hoax? Find out what really happened during that dreadful day when Paul was supposedly murdered. Here's the true story that the Beatles tried to cover up with the folklore we know today, the sneakily genius way a double was brought in, and the hideaway the true Macca found!
1. Chapter 1

**Hey guys! So I've been having this story idea for so long that I wanted to finally publish it now! I'm sorry if the first chapter is short, but don't worry, they'll get longer, I promise! I recommend you stay tuned to see what'll happen in this story, trust me, you won't want to miss this *wink*  
**

Chapter 1

…_tick, tock, tick, tock_

The alarm clock resounded like a timer bomb, counting the seconds to its detonation. If there was anything that was so cautious and worried about the time it had left in this world, it would be that exactly.

Or a human, maybe, for that matter.

_Tick, tock, tick, tock_

This is what kept its owner awake the whole night, being the only one in his house. He had already worked a full night the previous day, and this was just making him even crankier.

What was even worse was that cooperation among his co-workers wasn't too good at this point. Everyone had an idea of their own, but they all went with his anyway since they just wanted to stop the fuss, but he could tell his friends-

-no, not friends. Err, his _acquaintances_ despised his plan. A few years back he would have called them friends…even best friends.

But that title slowly crumbled to a neutral, probably even negative state.

_Tick, tock, tick, tock, ti- BRRRRIIIIINNNNGGG!_

The man yelled from the sudden noise and scrambled to hit button that would end the dreadful noise. After doing that, as he always did every morning, he walked over to the calendar on his wall, looking at the events for the day that was to come.

Would he look forward to it? That was the question.

Groaning, he lazily dragged his feet to the date it read: _8 November 1966_

Even with his eyes half-shut, he still had enough sense to realize that the paper was already outdated, and pulled it off, revealing the next date, which was that day, November 9, 1966.

"What's it got for me today, eh?"

_-Record. _Was the only thing scrawled on with his left hand.

"And to think I would get _one_ day off!" He complained and went downstairs to ready himself for the next several hours.

While sitting down in his living room having a cup, he felt the scar on his lip, even though he knew he wasn't supposed to touch it in the first place, and he remembered that dreadful day when he had fallen off his moped.

_What if it had been worse…?_

He shook the horrible thought out of his mind and put his cup in the sink. There was already a pile of unwashed ceramics there that he had either forgotten about or he had been too lazy to do the dishes. He'd been so busy with his work, relationship and several other obstacles or opportunities that he had at the time abandoned the duty of his own household chores.

Not having to leave for another ten minutes, he walked over to the television and switched it on, _The Monkees_ being the first thing popping up. It was some brand new comedy show that everyone apparently seemed to like, with its catchy comebacks, comic gags and jubilant vibes.

His band had once been just like them…

Eventually, the light of the tv show caught on to him and for that magical moment he forgot all of his worries, at least until the credits rolled and he realized that he was running late. Becoming a frustrated little Liverpudlian again, he hurried to get dressed and pushed his feet into his boots too hard that they felt sore when he stumbled out his door.

He did his usual rounds, greeting his neighbors and such, started his car, and drove off to work.

Oh, and he put on his disguise. Very important.

You're wondering, probably, what would an ordinary English man in his mid-twenties worry so much about that he would have to hide his true self from nearly the rest of the world, the public majority? What would he be so afraid about? There was the occasional mugging and hit and run, but several victims of _those_ have had completely revealed faces.

So what was his reason?

It was because he wasn't just any man, with any job, with any address, with any name, with any co-workers, with any _band_.

Paul McCartney glanced at the dull grey sky that overshadowed the city and drove off.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello guys! So this is the second chapter angsty as ever. Haha, hope you like it!**

Chapter 2

The drive to the studio was as boring as ever, the continuous dappling of the heavy rain only burdening each driver in the string of mass traffic with every drop that splattered on their front windows. That gave them one extra job to do, which was pulling the lever to release the wipers, which seemed all the more pointless since after every push, a new wave of water would just come rushing down in a matter of miliseconds.

"And now, bringing you all the latest hits of 1966!" The radio chimed.

The all too familiar drumwork of Ringo Starr rolled in, followed by an unmistakable voice.

_Good day sunshine, good day sunshine, good day sunshine!_

It was funny and ironic, hearing his very own composition being relayed to whoever it was tuned in to that particular station; singing about sunshine whilst there was a storm overhead back in reality.

Oh, sweet reality. The reality of fame was greatly unpleasant, and that was exactly what McCartney had to deal with every single day.

Eventually the traffic jam budged and each automobile rushed to beat the red light. They wouldn't have to worry any longer for waiting, because the whole lane branched out into smaller and more convenient roads.

Abbey Road wasn't far now. He'd just have to make one last right turn and…

…There it was, the single zebra crossing that greeted him every morning of his workdays. People wandered by here and there, but Paul wouldn't have to worry about any fans, because everyone was worried enough about keeping themselves dry. Some wore heavy coats that they pulled closer to ensure that they stayed completely dry, and some had the usual umbrella, which didn't really help as the water soaked through to their socks.

Paul steadily opened his car door, umbrella in one hand, bass in the other, ready to open. But he was caught off guard and as the door flew open, a cold harsh wind swirled around him and by the time he was able to shield himself, he was drenched and freezing. Trying his best to shrug it off, he got up, locked the door and trudged to the steps.

Paul was glad he was finally indoors once again, and the calm and quiet atmosphere soothed his nerves.

"Good morning Paul!" The receptionist called out. Cheerful and full of pride receptionists always were, no matter how the day started out. Why it was, Paul never understood, but he wished he had their positive traits.

"G'morning," Paul said in a crunchy voice and managed a small smile. He blushed at the way his words came out. He had barely spoken at all from when had woken up and his vocal cords needed to get a little more loosened.

"Have a great day!" She called out as Paul made his way to the Beatles recording room, dragging his Hofner alongside him.

"You too!" He replied, but as he could see, she was having a better day than him already.

Before he stepped in the room, Paul felt through his raincoat pocket to make sure that _it_ was there.

His little black book.

Satisfied when his fingertips reached a solid surface, he turned the handle.

It seemed that Paul was the last to arrive, as everyone else was already there, the producer at the panel, manager sitting next to him, and the musicians tuning, eating, and impatiently waiting for their bassist.

"Half an hour off the clock, son. You're late." John groaned.

"Well, my apologies, Lennon. I don't have a private jet which I can fly from my house to here. I travel by car like every other human, not that you'd know."

"So I'm not human, eh?" John's voice got a tad louder and he stood up.

"Alright boys, enough with the fuss," Brian said, the annoyance recognizable in the way he spoke. ""Let's just finish those few songs you've been rehearsing. We haven't got all day now."

"Yeah Paul, we haven't gotten all day so come earlier next time," John smirked while the others laughed.

Paul had had it. He was tired of all the same crap that went on and on every time he was there. There was barely anymore actual cooperation between the band members, in terms of both musicianship and likeability. Everyone was fed up with each other, just that no one even bothered to mention it.

"Can we just get to doing what we need to do? I didn't come here to do some idle chitchat." George spoke up.

So start they did, but as the hours passed by and the as the tracks were produced nothing actually got better than as it was before. There was no life in the music they were making, just a mask of enthusiasm that hid the face of devastation.

"No, no Ringo, you have to hit the ride like this," It was the fourteenth time they had gone over that particular part, and it was an hour's worth of a waste of time.

"You like it your way; I like it my way, Paul. I'm the drummer and I think I have the right to decide for myself what I play," Ringo snapped.

Paul was a little taken aback by the blue-eyed boy's reply. Ringo usually wasn't the one to show his annoyance, even in the slightest of ways. Paul just shrugged it off and let himself believe that the bad weather brought bad moods.

Something then caught Paul's ear; the swift guitar work that belonged to George. He seemed that he was trying to come up with something for his opening riff. It was a little off to how Paul wanted it to turn out, though.

"Here George, lemme show ya," Paul grabbed one of the guitars lying around, one of those that belonged to the studio and was shared by anybody recording in that room.

"See, I think it would be better if it was done like this," Paul set his amplifier to a crunchy but smooth tone, with just noticeable enough reverb, and hit the notes with great but calm force. The riff was a small set of three separate lines, just the way he wanted it in the first place.

"Play it like that, yeah?" Paul turned away before the younger boy could even have a say in it.

"Y'know, Paulie, we're getting real tired of ya son." John put down the glass of water he was drinking and walked closer to the bassist.

"Real tired of what? I'm only doin' me job."

"_No_, Paul, you're doing _too much_ of a job. Don't you realize what you're puttin' us lot through?" George randomly busted out. From the way he blurted it out it seemed that he'd been wanting to throw that out of his mouth for quite a long time.

Paul just looked at the turnip-haired Beatle, his light hazel doe eyes meeting with his dark brown piercing ones.

"Oh, you haven't a clue, Macca?" John yelled with such a sarcastic and ticked off demeanor. "Allow me to demonstrate." He began imitating Paul, mocking him in every way, from his standing and sitting, and even the teeniest of habits, one of them being his scratching of his nose using the middle finger, which every time was being directly pointed at the person being imitated.

In other words, John was flipping off Paul.

"Hey Ringo!" John called out in his best Macca impression, "I want you to drum like this. Hey George! Play this riff I made. Hey John! I don't like how your voice sounds. Sing it more smoothly, will you?" John spun around to face Paul again. "Got it now? You've been _controlling_ us for the past few months ever since we've started recording _your_ bloody album, and you've been completely oblivious that none of us are interested."

Paul had nothing to say in reply, or protest. He was absolutely speechless, and everyone, from the booth all the way to the panel kept awkwardly silent, watching. John simply looked at Paul with flame in his eyes.

"Well?" John spoke up after no words were produced.

"I…" Paul started. He hated himself for bringing this whole thing upon all of themselves. Maybe if he hadn't been so much of a prick, there would be much less tension between everyone. Then he thought, _What if the whole reason for the tension in the first place was…because of me?_

He started to get furious. He was so frustrated with everything that he wasn't able to think straight. And before he knew it, he said the last words he had ever spoken to the band.

"I wish I was never in the Beatles."

The words hung in the air and captured everyone with such great shock nobody moved a single muscle. Had he really said that? Soon Paul came to that awful realization and quickly grabbed his things and bolted out as fast as he could.

….

The room was silent. Without any verbal conversation, everyone understood that they were done for the day, maybe even done for their lives. That was it. Paul was gone, and it was _his_ fault in the first place.

_What a prick..._ George thought, his face scrunched up. He put down his guitar on a table and bent to sit down on the floor. His legs had turned to jelly and would have given way for him if he had stood there any longer.

He buried his face in his hands, letting out a deep sigh while doing it. Ringo just continued to slowly twirl his drumsticks, resisting the urge to not snap them in half. John remained in his position, looking down at the floor in deep thought. George just hoped that something would just randomly happen so the awkward slience could be broken.

And something did happen. Well, more like appeared.

George spread out his hands a little so he could get a view between his fingers. Nothing out of the ordinary, just some shoes, an extra pair of drumsticks and something that made George raise an eyebrow.

A small black book lay face down, open somewhere in the middle, and if one had good eyes, they could be able to see the initials _JPM_ scratched on the corner.


	3. Chapter 3

**WAZZUP GUYS? Okay, I am SOSOSOSOSOSO SORRY FOR THE LONG WAIT. This is my first time updating a story after school started, so yeah, it's gonna be a really busy ten months! Another reason is that I wanted this chapter to turn out just the way I wanted it to, so I tweaked it, added more drama and such, so I really hope you like this chapter, but you're not supposed to…you'll see what I mean…**

Chapter 3

Paul didn't know where he was going. He had furiously stormed out of the studio and headed straight to his car, not even bothering to cover himself with his umbrella. He carelessly shoved his bass to the passenger's seat, ignoring the obvious _crracckk!_ that followed. Soaking wet and below body temperature, his shaky hands started the ignition and drove off.

Contemplation on his destination continued. He didn't want to go home, but he didn't want to return to the dreadful studio either. Public places were crossed out on the mental list as well, since his disguise was ruined by the water. Should he go to Jane's? No, he didn't want to risk ruining his wonderful relationship with her…Family home? Personal problems shouldn't recklessly grow, no matter how big of a personality you were.

He decided that he would leave the decision for later and just…drive. The road seemed to be strangely empty, Paul's car being the only one on the road.

_Tok!_ The sudden split second of noise made Paul flinch. He vigorously spun his head around, looking for either the source or the effect. Everything seemed to be intact from what he could see.

_Was probably just the rain…?_

Paul flicked on the radio to try and soothe his mind and what do you know? _Eleanor Rigby_ was playing.

_Aaah look at all the lonely people… Aaah look at all the lonely people… _

Something fitting his mood.

After using the same lifeless road for what seemed like forever, Paul saw a light flickering out of the corner of his eye. He didn't know what it was, but he just wanted something-_anything_- to pop up. It wasn't like him to just randomly check out something, but he hadn't been acting like himself the whole day to begin with.

_Eleanor Rigby, picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been,_

He drove towards it.

_Lives in a dream._

He went as fast as he could for no apparent reason, and didn't even care if he was to run it over.

_Fuck it,_ he thought. _I as good as dead anyway._

_Waits at the window, wearing a face that she keeps in a jar by the door,_

The car started to uneasily wobble and before he knew it, it lopsided at a wicked angle.

"What the f-"

_Who is it for?_

The door flung open and Paul was violently thrown out, his forehead scraping the asphalt. He could tell he was heavily bleeding.

_Shit…_

_All the lonely people, where do they all come from?_

Remain conscious. Remain conscious. It was only a matter of time before he would pass out. The light seemed to loom bigger, and eventually a man was standing right in front of him, shining the pale light on Paul's face.

"H-help…" was the only thing he could manage.

_All the lonely people, where do they all belong?_ Although out of the car, his very own voice still made its way to his ears, as if taunting himself.

Instead of hurriedly scampering for the nearest first aid equipment or bringing the poor Beatle to the nearest possible hospital, the man laughed.

He laughed.

_Father McKenzie, writing the words to a sermon that no one will hear,_

He kicked Paul in the face.

_No one comes near._

Paul soon realized that this man wasn't his friend. He was trying to _kill him._

"Look at you. People wish they were you," the man sourly growled. "It would be very unfortunate if someone were to…take it from you."

Paul didn't know if his injury was causing his mind to play tricks on him, but the voice sounded awfully familiar…

_Look at him working, darning his socks in the night when there's nobody there,_

No. No. NO. This couldn't be happening. The man hoisted Paul up, carrying his body on his shoulders, and started to walk away, the music faltering.

_What does he care?_

"N…plea…st…" His condition grew worse and he couldn't even finish his words. Poor him, being a member of the Bea- wait, what was its name again? The Beat Boys, the Beats, the…the Beetles…?

Paul's eyes widened. He couldn't remember.

_All the lonely people, where do they all come from?_

_No, please, no! This can't be happening… okay, my name is Paul James-I mean James Paul Mc- McKenzie? McCarthy? I'm friends with a guy named Josh Lennard. I mean Jo…John! John Lennard?_

_All the lonely people, where do they all belong?_

It wasn't long before Pete-_Paul! –_ had to accept the truth. The horrible truth. Why couldn't he remember information he had lived with for as long as he could remember?

He could hear a water stream now rushing by his ears. The man now threw Paul on the ground again, his flowing dark brown hair skimming the lake.

"Y'know Paul, you always looked amazing with your doggone handsome looks and moptop hair. The Cute one, they would call you. Whatever happened to the wonders of fame? Didn't you spend your teen years trying to reach that point?"

Now the man was kneeling, once again flashing the torch's beam on Paul's face. Paul realized he hadn't seen what the other looked like…

"And four years ago you made it. And now you're just washed up like every other artist that struggled. It doesn't take half a brain cell to know the Beatles are falling apart anyway."

Paul didn't even care anymore about what he was saying. He was getting really sleepy and all he wanted to do was go to bed. But one last thing caught his attention.

In the blink of an eye the man grabbed Paul by the collar and shone the torch on his own face, and for a second Paul thought he was looking at a mirror.

"See you next time!"

The man kicked Paul and he fell in the lake, too weak to stay above water. Now Paul was all alone again, getting really drowsy.

_Mmm the water sounds very calming…_

He started to completely submerge, looking up as his blood decoratively mixed in with the glimmering blue water. And as he closed his eyes, he sang to himself.

"All the lonely people…where do they all…come from?"

_Sleep now…Goodnight dear Paulie…_

"All…the lonely…people…where do…they all...belong…"


End file.
